


Februwhump Prompt: Poison/Poisoning

by AnaliseGrey



Series: Februwhump Prompts 2019 [4]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Begging, Caleb has a bit of a rough time, Fjord mention, Gen, Hallucinations, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Poison, Restraints, Spoilers, Stream of Consciousness, Whump, begging for death, but that's not really anything new in this fandom is it?, caleb's backstory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-26 17:22:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17750237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnaliseGrey/pseuds/AnaliseGrey
Summary: Caleb is hit in battle and doesn't realize how serious it is until it's too late.





	Februwhump Prompt: Poison/Poisoning

He hardly notices the injury when it initially happens.

They’re in the midst of battle, arrows and spells are flying across the field, daggers and swords flashing, and while he notes the tugging sensation in his side, it’s barely enough to catch his attention. He’s focused on holding Haste on Beauregard and it doesn’t feel serious, so he ignores it.

It’s not until the battle is finished, as they enjoy the thrill of a hard-won victory, that the adrenaline starts to fade and he realizes something isn’t right.

“Caleb?” Nott appears at his side, placing a steadying hand on his hip as he sways dangerously. “Are you alright?”

“I-” A violent shudder tears through him, muscles spasming, and he curls in on himself with a strangled noise.

He blinks, and it feels like a bare second, but when his eyes open he’s on the ground, facing sky, Nott screaming for Jester next to him. The world has gone wavy, colors bleeding from one to another, impossibly bright and vivid, and he knows...he knows...something? His thoughts aren’t cooperating, sliding over his mind like water on an oiled surface, refusing to stick, refusing to coalesce into something helpful.

The panic’s distant, his pain gone, and it takes longer than it should for him to realize it’s because he’s gone numb. He can’t feel his arms or legs, and his lips are tingling unpleasantly, like a limb fallen asleep. That’s not a good thing, but he’s so tired it’s difficult to focus enough to make sense of it. If he could rest for a few minutes, maybe that would help.

He relaxes, the ground a welcoming bed; letting go feels like the easiest thing in the world. His eyes are still open, but unfocused- there’s blurred movement, flashes of color. Things go suddenly still, and it’s quiet, calm and peaceful past the rushing in his ears, and sleep is so close-

Something slams into his chest, and it doesn’t quite hurt, but feels of immense pressure. It feels awful, overwhelming, like he’s being crushed, and when he tries to voice his dismay nothing happens; he’s choking, but there shouldn’t be anything to choke _on_ , there’s nothing, they weren’t in the water, he hadn’t set fire to anything, there shouldn’t be smoke, why can’t he breathe, why isn’t he-

There’s another solid thump to his chest and he drags in a sudden gasp of air, and _that_ he feels, burning it’s way down his throat into his lungs, until he’s coughing, hacking, but he can’t feel it, can’t feel his body. Does he still have one? He doesn’t think his mind would exist without it, but there’s no way to tell. Perhaps he’s dead and simply doesn’t know it yet.

Feeling starts to come back, fingertips and toes prickling; the sensation spreads, up his arms and legs, quickly overtaking him. There’s lightening crawling in his veins and he needs it _out_. He digs at his arms, clawing, to release the pent up sparks, but hands grab his, pulling them away, and he’s being held down, pressure on his wrists and ankles. There are voices, garbled, but he understands the words, has heard those words often enough, though he’d hoped not to hear them again-

‘- _for your own good_ -’

-flashes as his eyes open and _oh gods_ , it’s the nurse, the orderly, Campion, and he’s _dead_ , he should be _dead_ , he’d killed that man with his own hands, how is he here again? Or maybe...maybe he _didn’t_ kill Campion? He thought he had, but perhaps he never left, is still there, never got out, never recovered, and this- _all_ of this, Nott, the Mighty Nein, everything- is just a figment of his fractured imagination. Stranger things have occurred; people left in solitary hallucinate to create company, he knows this, he _knows this_ , he did this to people _himself_ , didn’t he, he knows what can happen.

Or maybe all of that _did_ happen and they just sent him back; he’s gone mad again, he certainly _feels_ mad, or they got tired of his bullshit as they rightly should and sent him back to keep him out of the way but safe. It would be a well-intentioned kindness, though he thinks he’d rather be dead then back here, tied down, left in the quiet with his own thoughts and memories, forgotten to the world outside. He can’t stay, _he_ _can’t stay_ , he has things to _do_ , with or without them, and he’d hoped they’d help, that he wouldn’t have to do this alone, but by the gods he will if he must, but he can’t get _out_ , can’t get _free_ , and the voices, gods the _voices_ are back, why won’t they leave him alone? They’re loud, **so loud** , and getting louder, a cacophony of voices, driving him _insane_ , scraping the inside of his skull like curved knives, and he’s drowning, drowning in sound, in voices, in words, and why won’t it stop? Why won’t it stop, make it stop, make it STOP, makeitstop _makeitstop_ MakE iT s t O p-

-quiet-

-blessed quiet, only the sound of his blood rushing in his ears, like a river in a deep cavern, but without the distraction of the voices, without the noise, comes _other_ things-

-the air tugs at his skin with tiny hands, pricking like needles, like knives, like tiny claws and sharp-toothed mouths, gnashing and gnawing, and _gods_ , they’re eating him _alive_ , but he can’t stop them, can’t _move_ , can’t get _away_ , and he **_writhes_** , screaming, begging to anyone he can think of, who might have loved him once, anyone who might love him still, though why they _would_ he can’t begin to fathom.

 _Mutter_ , _vater_ -

-Nott, the rest of the Nein-

-Astrid, Eodwulf- he’s failed them terribly, left them alone, left them _behind,_  left them with-

- _Trent_ , Master Ikithon, he’s never shown mercy before, and there’s no reason to think he’ll start now, but Caleb can’t help but _try-_

They must be down to his bones by now, tearing through meat and sinew, but they keep going; he’s screamed his throat raw, pained wheezes all he has left, but still it continues and why won’t he die, why won’t they let him _die_ , let him _go_ , to whatever comes next, just let it _stop-_

_-and then-_

_-everything fades-_

_-quiet-_

_-peace-_

_-he opens his eyes_ -

-and blinks blearily into a dimly lit room.

He's exhausted, wrung out like a dish towel. He hurts, his whole body aching as if he's gone ten rounds with Beauregard in a bad mood; he swears his _hair_ hurts.

He shifts, his heart starting to pound in his chest as he realizes he's restrained. Ripped strips of fabric are carefully wound around his wrists and ankles and secured to the bed frame, keeping his arms anchored near his sides and his legs from kicking.

The film of fever sweat on his skin itches uncomfortably; there’s something in his mouth and when he prods at it with his tongue it topples out easily- a twist of toughened leather he recognizes from his own component pouch, speckled with saliva and indented from his teeth.

“ _Was_ -?”

“Caleb!”

There’s a flash of movement to his left, and he flinches hard, movement caught up short by his bindings. Then Nott is there, perched on the edge of the bed at his side.

“ _Sorry_ , sorry. Are you alright? Wait, no, that’s a dumb question, but are you yourself again?”

Caleb blinks, thoughts muzzy and slow. “Who else would I be?”

Nott’s ears perk up and she smiles. “Oh good. I think you’re doing better. I’ll let Jester know.”

She starts to move and Caleb grabs for her; again, he’s pulled up short, and he makes a noise of frustration. “Nott, _please-_  untie me first?” His voice wavers, and something in his tone must catch her attention because her smile softens and she pats his arm.

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m just getting my wire out to message her. Give me a second and I’ll have you loose.”

True to her word, she stays perched where she is; her warm weight pressed up against his side is soothing. After she sends the message to Jester she puts the wire away and gets to work freeing him.

“What happened?”

“How much of the fight do you remember?” she asks as she deftly starts undoing the knots at his wrist.

His brow furrows as he casts his memory back. “We won, I think. We won, but then things get a bit, ah, a bit…” The harder he tries to recall what happened between then and now, the more it makes his head hurt, until finally he gives up, letting his eyes slide shut to rest as Nott works. Once he’s free Nott settles against his side again, a light hand resting on his ribs.

“We did win, but you were hit during the fight. Here.” She pats his side, the warmth of her hand seeping in through the thin linen of his shirt, and he can vaguely recall a tugging sensation, barely more than a sting, lost amidst the rage and fury of the overall battle.

“ _Ja_ , I think I recall. I’m guessing it was not an ordinary wound.”

Nott shakes her head. “It was a poisoned blade. Jester didn’t have anything prepared to deal with it other than healing the wound itself. We had to let the poison run its course and hope for the best. It was rough going for a bit there.” Her voice goes quiet and she looks down at where his chest rises and falls under her hand as he breathes. “We almost lost you, you stopped breathing, but Fjord got you going again.” Her fingers twitch, claws catching in his shirt, and he raises a shaking hand to set it on top of hers, giving it a squeeze.

“I feel like I have been put through a wringer, _ja_ , but otherwise, I think I am doing much better, Nott.”

He almost doesn’t want to ask, but, “Why the bindings?”

Her ears droop, shoulders hunching up to meet them. “You kept clawing at yourself. You were drawing blood. We didn’t want you to hurt yourself worse.”

“Ah.” He clears his throat. “Yes, well. Thank you, for that.”

She looks up at him, golden eyes gazing at him from under her hair. “You’re not angry?”

He dredges up a smile; his meager energy stores are waning quickly, but it’s important she know this. “No, Nott, I’m not angry. You all were helping me. Sometimes helping someone means doing something...unpleasant. So thank you.”

She smiles at him, still a little uncertain, but not as worried as she’d looked earlier. “Ok. Well, why don’t you rest a bit more, and Jester will come check on you soon. She’s got all her spells back now, and she prepared something to help you if you still need it.”

“That sounds good.” He closes his eyes, exhaustion cresting over him like a wave, and he’s out before she leaves the room.

**Author's Note:**

> This originally started as the idea for a 'withdrawal' prompt, but then I quickly realized poison would work much better for what I had in mind, and tada!
> 
> For some reason, I find the 'stream of consciousness' style of writing a lot of fun, and sometimes I just like to follow it along and see where it goes.
> 
>  _mutter_ \- mother  
>  _vater_ \- father  
>  _was_ \- what
> 
> Want to yell about Critical Role, ask a question, or just say hi? Come find me on tumblr at [Analisegrey](http://analisegrey.tumblr.com/), or on twitter at the same handle!


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